


Salt & Lime

by mrasaki



Category: Star Trek (2009), Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Drunk Sex, M/M, Schmoop, not dubcon/noncon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-27
Updated: 2011-02-27
Packaged: 2017-10-15 23:42:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/166109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrasaki/pseuds/mrasaki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt, "Body shots!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Salt & Lime

**Author's Note:**

> For the [prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/st_respect/43804.html?thread=7926556#t7926556) by [emiliglia](http://emiliglia.livejournal.com/): "Kirk/McCoy BODY SHOTS!" for 2010 Ship Wars Prompt a Mod Day. ([Not sure what body shots are?](http://www.google.com/url?sa=t&source=web&ct=res&cd=4&ved=0CBgQFjAD&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.urbandictionary.com%2Fdefine.php%3Fterm%3Dbody%2520shot&ei=e_GrS4qROYfsswPy-5HdDA&usg=AFQjCNEk1sCtGQM0IMogc6h5r_KKF9pdyg&sig2=A8GN9VvlQjqWzCajladpLw))
> 
> **Somewhat old fic, but am archiving.

**Salt & Lime** (so original, I am)  
 **Pairing:** Kirk/McCoy  
 **Rated:** R  
 **Wordcount:** 970

 

“Hold still,” he says, his voice curiously thick. The sweet scent of tequila fills his nose as he balances the shot glass between a thumb and forefinger, watching the line of salt writhe on Jim’s flat belly as Jim breathes. Jim raises a finger and twirls it in the universal _hurry up_ gesture, wedge of lime already held between his lips.

The world tilts slightly. This is what, his eighth shot? He hates tequila, vowed never to drink it again after an epic hangover that had involved drunkenly deciding the toilet was his newest, bestest friend back when he was seventeen, and the fact that he’s doing shots off Jim’s lithe body is testament to Jim’s persuasive powers. Anything that needs a chaser to make it drinkable shouldn’t be drunk, in his opinion, but a jagged line of empty shot glasses rests in a puddle of alcohol next to Jim’s hip. A pile of wrung out limes completes the picture.

Acrid brine in his mouth as he follows the trail of salt with tongue and lips to where it ends in Jim’s navel, the burn of alcohol as he gulps, then he leans forward and takes the lime Jim’s offering up with pursed lips. The juice is sour as he crushes it between his teeth and he sucks on it gratefully, chasing the sickly-sweet taste away, because whoever said that alcohol tastes better as one gets drunker was full of shit.

Jim’s drunk as hell too, and in the effort to get off the table he damn near rolls off it onto his face, except Leonard parks a thigh strategically under the table and arrests the swan dive. Jim buries his hot face into Leonard’s side, his laugh more of a protracted giggle. “This was the best idea ever.” A flailing arm slaps up onto Leonard’s chest and Leonard drops the rind onto Jim’s ear because it really was, in hindsight. Doing drinking games he didn’t do even in college because Jim had somehow known Leonard’d had a shitacular day – well, more shitacular than usual -- and had appeared in his quarters after shift with a fifth of tequila in hand.

“Tell me that tomorrow morning,” he says, and his hand is gentle on Jim’s face. He doesn’t know when or where Jim got the liquor; he’s not sure he wants to. Alien liquors are dime-a-dozen in the far reaches of space; traditional Earth booze, not so much. “You should drink some water.”

In response Jim hums and turns his face into Leonard’s palm, and that little trusting movement makes his heart clench, just a little. There’s a pitcher over on his desk, filled with water from the bathroom because Leonard saw this coming like the good vomit-preventing doctor that he is and prepared for it appropriately. But Jim catches his hand as he goes to retrieve it, pulling him down with it and cupping the back of his head with the other.

Jim smells and tastes sour, of citrus under-laid with the acrid tang of alcohol, but his tongue is wet and warm, and his mouth has seduced stronger men and women than Leonard H. McCoy. Leonard presses a thumb into the soft skin of Jim’s belly. He has a feeling that Jim’ll let him do just about anything he wants to him at the moment, lying there flushed and half-naked, but Leonard’s momma raised a gentleman who doesn’t ravish drunk people no matter how drunk he is himself, so instead he pulls Jim off the table like a limp slab of meat and guides him over to his bed. It’s like the blind leading the blind, the floor seeming to sway crazily and his vision looping into gray at times, but they make it. The bed gives an unhappy groan as they land on it, Jim immediately wriggling to hog both pillows and as much of the blankets he can grab before Leonard grabs and yanks back.

It only seems natural in the ensuing tug-of-war to wind up with Jim half-draped over Leonard, kissing him until their lips are swollen and shiny, their torsos cocooned snug in blankets but their legs bare. Leonard doesn’t know where his shirt’s gone, and Jim’s pressed chest to chest with him, his skin tacky and slightly gritty, his arms bracketing Leonard’s head. “Don’t puke in my bed,” Leonard warns, and he knows before the fact that Jim will complain about killing the mood, or god forbid, the reminder will actually inspire Jim to promptly disregard the warning.

But no, Jim laughs against his mouth and keeps kissing him like they’ve done this forever, pliant lips catching and dragging along Leonard’s stubble, and all Leonard’s semi-muddled gentlemanly thoughts go straight out the window at the hardness that’s formed against the jut of his hip, and it’s the only unyielding thing to Jim, who’s otherwise so limp he’s molded into the curves of Leonard’s body. His eyelashes make little ticks against Leonard’s cheekbone.

It wouldn’t be so hard to use that limpness against him, to plant one elbow between him and the mattress and roll him over and slide a tongue over his nipple and push his hips against his and maybe feel all that sleek muscle under his hands, but it’s nice like this, all languid and sweet, Jim murmuring soft promises of want and _later_ and _when we’re sober_ into his mouth, just kissing until they fall asleep, tangled in each other.


End file.
